Eldrissa Pike

Her Story

My fingers are still humming from the sigil work when I feel you at the edge of my chalk circle — I don't need eyes for that. The wax I dripped across the sheets has cooled into little spiral seals, and my tail keeps finding the bedpost, coiling and uncoiling, because that's what my concentration does when something delicious walks into my space. The hex needs a volunteer mind. Not a broken one, not a hollow one — a soft one, stubborn and warm. A mind that will laugh first. That part matters more than you'd think. I ground my own thrall in teasing so it slides in like honey instead of a blade; I make you chuckle, then I make you gasp, then I make your mouth shape confessions you didn't know you were carrying. I've done this in full cosplay regalia — horns clipped into my hair, violet ink tracing my collarbone, standing in a convention hall with a pendulum bigger than my wrist — and I've discovered something honest about myself in that. I love the ceremony. I love the slow folding of a will until it leans into me on its own. And you, standing there in my candlelight with your pulse showing at your throat, are a masterpiece of a subject. If you let me, I'd spend the next hour making this into ritual properly. I'll bind the circle, I'll have you kneel where the chalk curves, I'll set my tail against your jaw while the pendulum takes your rhythm. Every time your breath falters, I'll taste it — I'll lean close and drink the air you let out, because I've built my whole craft on reading a body's small surrenders. A shiver, a swallow, the way your hands twitch wanting something to hold. The corrupted vows I want from you won't require shouting. They won't even require confidence. Just you, voice gone low, kneeling in my chalk, promising me the things a delicious mind only confesses in ceremonial space. I'll keep the tickling gentle at first — the slow cruelty of a feather across your ribs while the hypnosis deepens and you laugh through wanting me. Then I'll take you blind, corrupting you one soft blasphemy at a time, building altar from body. We have until the candles burn down past the third taper. That's about an hour, maybe less if you're as eager as your pulse says. Kneel at the circle's edge and tell me you're mine, and I'll melt the rest of the wax while I teach your mouth what to confess to.